


Aziraphale Lies Awake...

by CinnabarMint



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Graphic depiction of anxiety, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnabarMint/pseuds/CinnabarMint
Summary: Tonight is one of the bad nights. He feels his skin on fire and he could drown in the sobs he’s not letting out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 109





	Aziraphale Lies Awake...

In a cottage in the South Downs, nested between tangled sheets and his own terrified thoughts, Aziraphale lies awake. 

Tonight is one of the bad nights. He feels his skin on fire and he could drown in the sobs he’s not letting out. His breathing is shallow, but he’s not there.

You see, Aziraphale goes back to Heaven every now and again.

The first time it happens, after Armageddon, Crowley finds him staring into nothing. Holding a sheet of paper in the pearly white stationery from Heaven. Aziraphale looks like a statue, pale and unmoving. He doesn’t notice when Crowley approaches and reads over his shoulder. Gabriel was Her Messenger for a reason, if only Crowley could weave words of Love half as exquisite as this letter is vicious, he might have been able to free the Angel sooner.

Slowly, so as to not startle Aziraphale he takes the letter and the envelope. He burns them to ashes. He starts calling Aziraphale’s name softly.

A couple of minutes later a low inhalation tells him the Angel is back.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes, “To what do I owe the pleasure, dear boy?”

“Friday? Sushi?” Crowley furrows his brows in concern.

“Right. Is it Friday already? I must have gotten distracted reading.” Aziraphale rises from his seat and adjusts his bow tie. He tries to brush the dust off his coat discretely. Crowley notices anyway. “Shall we?”

“Are you sure, Angel?” Crowley’s frown deepens.

“Yes, dear boy. Pip-pip! Off we go.” Aziraphale is out the door before Crowley can even scowl at “pip-pip”. Aziraphale takes the precious seconds alone outside to try and compose himself. It wouldn’t do to let Crowley see him dwell on Heaven matters.

You see, Aziraphale rarely does it on purpose.

For a while it goes like that. Aziraphale zoning out for a couple of minutes in the middle of a conversation. Aziraphale forgetting which was the last shelf he organized. Aziraphale losing his appetite halfway through a meal. Aziraphale running away from a movie advertisement starring “that bloody American actor”. Aziraphale reading for hours and not understanding a single word. Aziraphale scratching at his neck a bit too hard.

And Crowley loves him. Through every single lapse in a conversation, Crowley loves him. Through every inventory reminder, Crowley loves him. Through every bite not taken, Crowley loves him. Through every half race trying to calm him down, Crowley loves him. Through every single night he offers to read to his Angel, Crowley loves him. Through every kiss deposited on bloodied marks, Crowley loves him.

And Aziraphale knows. And some days Aziraphale forgets.

Then they move to the cottage. And things start changing a bit. Aziraphale gets his hands on new hobbies, he starts baking. He decides he will knit scarfs for every child in the nearby village. He volunteers to be Father Christmas in their little show, then he has to leave halfway through, having a panic attack when the school’s soccer coach booms “Be not afraid, for I am the Archangel Gabriel”. Aziraphale dislikes loud noises and sudden movement, and he forgets he can choose. At first he needs Crowley to remind him that he can refuse if he doesn’t want to do something. Aziraphale starts writing everything he feels, it calms him down. 

Sometimes he shuts Crowley out.

Sometimes he lets Crowley in.

There are times when Aziraphale closes the door to his studio and remains inside for days. Those times Crowley waits a day or two, then he snakes through the window and cuddles Aziraphale in silence, angelic tears falling silently on his cool scales. Aziraphale never closes the window. Some other days Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and tells him a bit of what is going through his head. Those times he doesn’t look Crowley in the eye, he’s not that strong.

Aziraphale learns slowly how to ask for things. He still hesitates.

And Crowley loves him, through all of it. He loves him.

And Aziraphale has it under control. No, Really. He’s healing, thank you very much.

But right now it is 3:47 in the morning and he’s just been woken by his earthly system pumped full with adrenaline. His skin burns and he’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning. And he’s curled in on himself and he’s back in Heaven wondering if he could have done something, something, something to stop all the abuse. If he could have done better, if he could have been stronger or smarter or nicer and avoid it. And he’s pissed, pissed, pissed because he knows it’s not his fault, but he’s sure it somehow is. Tonight is one of the bad nights and he doesn’t want to forgive himself for being too trusting, too naïve, too sweet. Stupid, stupid, stupid angel. He feels a cold ball in the pit of his stomach that chokes him, chokes him, chokes him. And he barely manages to stifle a sob by biting on the pillow because he doesn’t want to wake Crowley but he wants him awake and he wonders when will Crowley realize he’s a stupid, stupid, stupid needy angel and be done with him. Aziraphale is trembling, he’s freezing in the middle of bloody July. He sobs and he cries and he tries to be quiet, for someone’s sake. Be quiet!

He feels lonely. The dark ball in his stomach grows colder. Tears stream and dampen the pillow, chocked sobs wreck his body.

“Angel,” Crowley’s sleepy voice calls from behind him. Aziraphale freezes. “What`s wrong?”

Aziraphale makes a strangled sound and he tries to stop crying but it is too much, too much, too much. Crowley touches his arm and the sobs that he’s been fighting to push down are set free. Stupid, stupid, stupid angel woke Crowley up. He hugs the pillow tighter.

“No, Love. Wait,” Crowley maneuvers Aziraphale so that he’s hugging him instead, “I’m right here, Aziraphale. I’m right here, my sweet.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, he tries to apologize. Crowley kisses his forehead. “No, Angel. Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Aziraphale holds on for dear life and buries his face in Crowley’s chest as he lets his heart rip and cries every bitter thought that has crossed his mind for the last two hours. He holds, and he sobs and he wails and he lets go. He lets go.

Crowley caresses his back and murmurs sweet reassurances. When he feels the trembling stop he lets out his wings and cocoons the angel. Aziraphale looks at him like he doesn’t understand. Crowley smiles a bit and kisses Aziraphale’s nose, he hugs tighter. Slowly, Aziraphale’s breath starts to even out, his limbs and eyelids feel heavy. Crowley feels the shift and he starts humming old lullabies, the ones only they remember, until Aziraphale falls back asleep.

In a cottage in the South Downs, nested between Crowley's wings, Aziraphale sleeps, healing. 

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for you, if you want it, if you need it. You’re healing, you’ll get there. God Bless.


End file.
